Artifact 17
by D'Lark
Summary: What makes an object historical? Precious?...


**Artifact #17**

Author's Note: I thought a personal note might help in explain the oddness of this story – ie. being dropped into a distant future and the vagueness of what happened before. It wasn't my intention – honest! As with most fanfic, I had just finished watching a DP episode when I was attacked by a rabid plot-bunny. It sank its teeth in, and given little choice, I wrote. Next thing I know, I have 11 short lines of what seemed like a journey entry by Sam, almost more poem than paragraph. Unfortunately, like many sadistic plot-bunnies we all know and hate, it was at that moment the little rodent scampered off and refused to offer anything else… like a beginning or end… or even a story arc I could work the journal entry into. But neither would the passage just go away. It kept demanding I find it a place. So, this one adventure of the random paragraph that wouldn't leave me alone… enjoy. And feel free to kidnap it and work it into your own fanfic. I'd love to see it find a good home.

Standard 'Please Don't Me' Statement: Would anyone believe me if I tried to claim Danny or his 'verse as my own?... didn't think so. I'm just playing, and promise to put 'em back when done.

xxxx

The museum was dark, visiting hours long passed and the cleaning crew gone for the night. And although it was as silent as a crypt, all was not deathly still within its walls. A dark silhouette moved among the shadows, weaving between statues and display cases of the popular exhibit. Despite the surrounding treasure, the figure moved quiet and sure, eyes never wavering from its goal - a pedestal set against the building's outer wall.

Moonlight from a highly placed window fell across the pedestal, glinting off the glass casing and illuminating the artifact within. Upon rich, purple velvet laid a tattered piece of paper. With torn edges, water stains and more than a few burn marks, the page seemed more discarded scrap than rare valuable. But it wasn't the paper itself that was prized, it was what had been preserved upon it in now-faded ink. Not an ancient incantation or early law, but still, the words resonated with power. A glimpse into the mind of someone who had lived the horrific and the incredible. A voice from the past, who spoke of honour and sacrifice and love - and all in barely a dozen lines.

Leaning over the pedestal, and by light of the moon, the intruder could just barely make out what was written…

--

He foils the plots of renegade ghosts, protecting his family, his friends, his town, the world.

Because of what he does, he is hated by the ghost realm.

Because of what he is, he is feared and hunted by humanity.

Because he chooses to keep fighting, he's a hero.

And because I love him, I'll never tell.

Not his secret,

Or my own.

Being rejected by crush can sting,

Being rejected by someone you love hurts a hell of a lot more.

To be rejected by someone you respect, admire and love…

I'd rather face every horror of the Ghost Zone.

--

A brass plaque on the wall proclaimed the note to be one of the few surviving artifacts of the Ghost War. A page from the diary of one of Amity's Heroes. It was all the plaque claimed, since it was all that could be verified. The date of the entry hadn't survived, leaving numerous scholars to postulate when it had been written. Because of its romantic, and perhaps tragic nature, even laymen had enjoyed countless hours discussing the possible timeline. Had she written it just before the final battle? Perhaps a last entry because of the uncertainty they faced, and her desire to voice her true feelings at least once. Or was it something she had written years before, perhaps merely days after the accident, and then kept hidden? Some fringe theorists even questioned where it was written by the assumed 'her' at all. Phantom had been considered attractive and heroic by several in Amity, more than one fan club was listed in historical records. And with hindsight, it seemed impossible that The Trio had been the only ones to know the secret - it wasn't as if his disguise or alias was overly elaborate. Perhaps, this entry had been penned by someone who had seen the resemblance, or linked the coincidental disappearances of Fenton to the timely arrivals of Phantom but chose to keep silence for the reasons mentioned above.

But theories and arguments and possibilities meant nothing to the person that was here this night. She had only one purpose - she had come for the page. A piece of history, a piece of her own past. It had been personal and private, once upon a time. Now, it was artifact #17. Tagged, catalogued and on display.

And yet, it was more.

In the days she had spent casing the museum, this midnight intruder had stood close enough to hear the remarks of those that stopped to read the page. Of course, some just read it and shuffled off to the next exhibit. But there were others, those who paused. Who looked at the words and perhaps saw the young girl that had written them, sitting alone on her bed, trying to make sense of her heart. Then again, perhaps they saw themselves, as they once were, as they were now, struggling with similar emotions.

The thief had seen more than a few groups of teenage girls clustered around the page, whispering the secrets of young hearts. There had also been those with the more experienced hearts, subtly dashing away a tear or two, as if they'd merely gotten something in their eye. But what had really made the thief pause this night was the memory of seeing an elderly couple who had stopped to read the page - the way they had blindly reached for the other's hand and shared looks of unspoken communication.

It was a tattered scrap of paper, torn from a diary years before. It was an artifact, a museum piece. And it was hope. And remembrance. And a dozen other things people felt and imagined when they read those faded words.

And that was the deciding factor. Stepping forward, the thief stroked a finger along the glass that separating her from the page. She traced a few words with her mind's eye, recognizing the familiar tilt and shape of each letter. "It looks like you don't need rescuing after all," she whispered to the treasure. Then lifting her head, she let her eyes wander the room, take in the rest of the gathered objects. So many familiar things, most little more than scrap because of their shattered condition… but all held memories and grand history, and that made them precious. A smirk lifted the woman's lips as she thought of the researchers and historians that had so painstakingly created the exhibit, documenting all they knew and supposed. "Shame they don't know the rest of the story," she remarked, before stepping away from the pedestal and then through the wall behind it.

-end-


End file.
